Through Her Eyes
by Dilly-chan
Summary: ZabuzaxFemaleHaku. AU story. Zabuza is a mercenary for hire, with a heart as cold as his eyes. What happens when the new girl Gatou sells him for the night is a pure child? Read and review.
1. The Beginning

Okay. This is my third fanfic listed, and I -still- haven't gotten the hang of this thing. How sad. Welcome to chapter one, or.. the so-called prologue. If you're actually reading this, then you've read the summary, and know that Haku is a female for the duration of the story. Sorry, guys. I don't have a problem with Yaoi at all--honestly, I support it whole-heartedly though sex period really isn't my cup of tea( too bad there'll eventually be some in here.. Sorry in advance if I don't hit too heavily on it? As for the rating, just wanted to be safe.). But for this, it's.. better that Haku's gender be swapped. Especially with my inspiration. Not only was it one of Gackt's songs combined with my sister's Memoirs of a Geisha book, but a very dear person to me. This is actually an attempt at the Zabuza he has always portrayed to me. So it'd make sense that it should be -his- Haku accompanying him this go-around, right? .. But I'm sure I've droned on more than enough. So, without further adieu..

The disclaimer, first off: I don't own Naruto, or any of the characters. This is solely fanfiction. Never will be anything more.

The setting of this is still Kirigakure, of course; Mizu no Kuni is still covered in civil wars. But there are no shinobi. There are only soldiers, mercenaries, that sort of thing. Any fighting will be done with hands and weapons. If that disappoints you too, then.. I'm even more sorry. TT Forgive me? Wah. Anyway... Enjoy the fanfic, and be sure to review. Heck, you can even chew me out if you really feel like it. But just remember, especially if you're going to do it over the whole gender issue, that you can't go a single weekend at conventions without seeing Sexy no Jutsu cosplayers. Considering the only ones who know the move are Naruto and Konohamaru? ... I rest my case.

Please enjoy. I did work very hard on this, and still am, though the updates may be slow. My other fanfic is still in the works, as well.

**Chapter 1: The Beginning**

The stench of blood and death still clung to him, teasing his nose and his alone. Though, he hadn't tried particularly hard to rid himself of it; the sooner it faded, the sooner his desire to kill would return. Showers were a regular thing, including soap and shampoo. There was just that significant hint remaining, as a reminder. As a sedative for his bloodlust. Ending the lives of innocent civilians was never a good idea, now was it..? Not that any would stand up to the Demon, should he decide to rampage. Prematurely he had been ripped from his sanctuary on the battlefield; forced to leave war behind temporarily for the dull halls of his childhood home. And for what reason? .. The death of his father. A man he'd scarcely cared for. When the letter had arrived two mornings ago that the old man had passed away, it had brought no loss to the heart of Zabuza. At the very most, it had caused an amused chuckle, to the disturbance of soldiers around him. But like a good boy--and because there was no other choice--little argument was put forth to change these preset plans, and by noon the remaining Momochi was on his way back to the city to deal with funeral arrangements and the reading of his father's will, though he already knew that both the estate and money were left to him; months ago the old man had stated this in another letter.

All of the necessary paperwork had already been dealt with. As for the funeral, it was scheduled to be four days from the current date; not at -his- advisory, but relatives he had honestly never known about residing in another country-- which one had it been again? He really didn't care. The bottom line was, they wished to attend the funeral, so it was only fair that people who actually -cared- about this event should be allowed to see the deceased man's burial. Did it have to be ninety-six hours away, though? He'd managed to make it back home in half a day. Then again.. he wasn't outside the country, not to mention his stamina kept him going for hours on end without pause. In truth, he -still- was not tired, and sleep had been a rare thing since returning. Something about being inside the walls of the estate left him feeling quite .. nauseous. To the servants who found themselves awake in the later hours of the night, it was not uncommon for him to be pacing the halls, or preparing to leave altogether; nor was it uncommon for his return to wait until the following evening or night. This was always the case, and had been, upon his returns, rare as they tended to be.

This was another sleepless night for Momochi Zabuza. The streets were not as crowded at this time as they used to be. That was the first thing he had noticed about the city. People seemed to have more important business indoors, or more specifically, in the safety of their own homes. Even the bars came across as close to empty. Not a problem; lately drinking didn't give him quite the edge that it once had. What was so fun about entering a state where your mind was clouded and logical thought no longer existed? No, to be blunt, the thought irritated him. But that could easily be due to the amount of reliance placed on his senses. One could not go into battle drunk, and expect not to be killed within seconds. It was foolishness. Streetlights overhead cast their false light on the dark ground below. Briefly he stopped beneath one, a single calloused hand disappearing inside his pocket; feeling around almost thoughtlessly. There was a soft jingle. Coins, no doubt. Slowly sandaled feet continued their movements, a constant battle as one passed the other. There were only two true pleasures that Zabuza felt in life. The fulfillment of killing, and the most natural desire of the human body; sexual urges. Kirigakure -did- have a very lovely selection of women to choose from, in its most well-known bordello. Probably the only thing the Momochi could enjoy about coming back. This was his destination for the night, as was usually the case when he stole away without a word; not that anyone deserved to know his personal business, anyway. That was simply putting too much faith in those around him.

Every evening, it was a different woman. The variety was wonderful enough to allow it. He really didn't care about their beauty, facial or body. They were all the same; worthless, disgusting whores. Things to be used and tossed away like trash. Instilling fear into the hearts of those he crossed paths with did not cease with merely killing; women recieved a different fear. When bought by this Demon, the night could easily compare to Hell. He was like poision to their poor veins, spreading throughout them so rapidly, like the plague. Torturing, degrading. Teaching them their place again and again without mercy. He felt no remorse; it was the life they chose to lead. Why should he regret his own heartlessness? What was it to any of them, these filthy wretches? Affection was an alien feeling. He'd be damned if he ever bothered to learn--or remember--one whore's name. Now, something that would never be forgotten by Zabuza was the bordello. It was a well-kept building. A bit closer to the fancy side, but, it did do its job in attracting customers. It was, quite possibly, the most ornamental in the entire city. Double-doors covered in Oriental engravings, made of thick wood, pushed open to reveal the lobby. Leading to the main stairs--and the rooms--was a red carpet, an embroidered gold dragon stretching vertically along it. Tapestries covered the walls; some depicting more dragons, others resembling women. One even looked like it could have passed as an angel--but that was just his personal speculation. Of course at the door waited the manager to greet the customers; and sure enough he was in fact there, to bow in greeting to Zabuza before beginning his standard persuasions.

"Welcome, good sir! Oh, you are a military man, are you? Returned on leave? Well, look no further for your relaxation! Our girls will make you feel right at home, I can assure you!" It was the same man it always was, not surprising. His name... It took a moment of silent contemplation before the name found its way back into his mind. Gatou. Behind medical bandages lurked the beginnings of a smirk. Gatou was short; no, not just compared to his tall stature, either. He was -short-, and none-too young, either. He had to at least be pushing fourty, fourty-five. Resting on his nose were a rather small pair of glasses; tinted, actually giving the impression that they could be more of sunglasses, but they did their job well. Hiding beady eyes unless he was peering up at you with that annoying grin of his. The man really did reek of foul play. But, who was he to judge? Turn a blind eye, pay no attention, and even if your conscience tries to nag you, it won't have anything -to- nag. No matter; Zabuza's conscience had long-since been crushed.

The grin lasted only momentarily. He peered up, closer at the visible features. And then the sandy mustache seemed to twitch as proof of realization. "Momochi Zabuza? I should have known it was you... Welcome back, welcome back. I can assume it's your father's passing that has brought you around? Such a shame..." To this, Zabuza simply grunted. Let the man think as he wished. Gatou knew damn well that he was not very patient; the reminder of this came in the form of that sharp gaze flickering off to one side; appearing to fixate on a tapestry. "Of course, we'll find your perfect girl. But first..."

-This- was the only part of buying a prostitute that was troublesome. Parting with his weapon. It was customary, to avoid any harm coming to any of the 'merchandise'... but if someone truly desired to kill any of them, they could just as easily do it with bare hands. What a pointless task. Again, he grunted. But he was not stupid enough to think that he would be the exception to the rule, especially with his choice blade. Reaching back, the hilt of his massive cleaver was grasped, and with ease he removed it from its resting place. Handing it to the small being in front of him. If Gatou needed it from him so badly, he could try and drag it on his own. After all, he was lucky that the Momochi did not put up a fight right then and there just -parting- with it. Unfortunately Gatou had wisened up from the last visits made. Instead of taking the time to actually try and lift the cleaver, he brought it up as much as he could, only to rest it against the wall. It was a shame, too; the show granted was always entertaining. Even if the one performing disagreed. "Now. Right this way, right this way."

A lone door sat off to the west end of the back wall. This was the door he was led to. The crimson cloth hanging down in the doorway was brushed aside, and the unusual pair moved into the next room, another room Zabuza would never forget. It was set up in the style of a lounge. There were couches all around, with a single table in the middle, and throughout the room were women; hair and makeup to match Geishas, kimonos covering bodies of all different types. Some voluptuous, others having a more youthful twist to them. But each held their own specific beauty. Beauty that he felt the need to crush into nothing but dust. A sea of eager--perhaps too eager--smiles awaited them.

He knew what to do by now. Pick the girl he felt the most desire for. The price for her would be stated, and he'd pay. Then she would lead him up to one of the rooms. From there on, the rest was up to him. Just as he was about to exercise this granted right of selection by elimination, something caught his attention. That stupid grin had returned to the brothel owner's face. Actually, it was safe to say that he had lit up, probably from some unknown secret tucked up his sleeve, about to be revealed. Sure enough he piped up again; "There is one more perhaps you would be interested in taking a look at? She's a new girl, just arrived this morning.. Heh, heh."

A shiver crept up Zabuza's spine. A rare occurance, that words could have that effect on him; but something suddenly felt off. Felt .. undescribable. None of the women in the room sparked his interest. It was mainly their willingness to go with him turning him off. They were filthy, every last one of them; selling themselves not for money but for the sake of gaining new experiences from every man that chanced to come across them. Perhaps he was just as bad as they. But.. this thought was best left to die, lest it manifest into something deeper such as loathing. His agreement to view this 'new girl' was all-too obvious with the hanging silence. Before he even realized it, Gatou had left; and just as quickly returned, too. Still grinning like the lecherous old man that he was. He motioned the Momochi back out, and Zabuza obeyed, desiring no further to look upon the cheerful faces of the women in that room.

Had he known what his eyes were about to behold this time, maybe he would have taken chance with one of those lustful tigresses. But, deep down, curiousity compelled him to do otherwise. Gatou seemed unusually proud of himself, he thought with an inward growl. Was this newest prize really so valuable? Just another prostitute, to be soiled by the hands of Kirigakure's Demon. Just another whore to defile. But this opinion was silenced. Dark orbs involuntarily widened. The prize was no woman, but a mere girl; she could not have been older than fifteen. Soft chocolate-hued eyes stared up at him, full of nothing but the sweetest innocence. Unlike the others, her kimono was worn right; showing no flesh other than her slender little neck. Porcelain cheeks held a tint of scarlet to them, but it was blush he quickly realized, for she too was dolled up to seize the eyes of pent-up men. Again the coins in his pocket jingled. In dove his hand, to remove the mass, which was immediately handed over to Gatou. Those eyes alone had cemented Zabuza's decision, as Gatou had probably known they would; stupid old bastard, he cursed mentally...

But Gatou's grin only broadened as he handed the key to their room over in exchange for the money.

----End Chapter 1----


	2. Awkward Beginnings, Hidden Conscience

Okay. Here's the second chapter, fresh off WordPad. I haven't reread it fully, so... if it turned out terrible, then, shoot. xD Knowing me(and looking at the time), it probably needs a -lot- of editing. Maybe a complete rewrite altogether. Or.. half-rewrite. Once again, I don't own Naruto, or any of the characters. But I do love Masashi Kishimoto to death for having brought about such beautiful, memorable characters such as these two, if that counts for diddly-squat. ;

Er, where was I? Oh, yeah. This pretty much takes place from Haku's view of half of the scene from last chapter, as you'll find out quickly. I'll get better with the whole .. scene-flippage soon enough. Honestly, I was just afraid I'd -never- get past this part of the fanfic. It's been in the works for months now. The first half was written with the first chapter, but I got a bad case of writer's block halfway through, and despite having all of this planned out, it didn't come to pass. Needless to say, a good chunk of dialogue and detailwork and all that was left out along the way. Perhaps, as this story progresses, I'll do a better job capturing Zabuza especially's personality. Eh.. I'd be happy if I at least came remotely close, to be honest. Disgracing them isn't my purpose. xx Promise.

.. Well, except maybe Gatou. But Gatou is Gatou. No one really likes Gatou, anyway, do they? xD Sorry to any Gatou-lovers out there who stumble across this...?

No, by the way, the two do not do anything just yet. Not yeeeeeeeeeet. Enjoy, yes? And, reviews are always good. 3 Still looking for that flamer! .. Though nice, friendly, encouraging reviews are much better appreciated. xD! But you all knew that. ANYWAY. On with the story. ... Why do I get the feeling I left out something very important? Oh, well. It'll pop up next chapter should I remember.

**Chapter 2: Awkward Beginnings, Hidden Conscience**

How strange, that she should be called upon so randomly, and at such an hour of the night. But then again, it wasn't late at all, was it, given this place that she now had to call 'home'? Warning had come that there would be times when it was nearly morning before anyone decided to come by, so being awakened from sleep wasn't anything to be alarmed over. But she had not been asleep. No, nothing close to that... It was only her first night spent here, so to consider sleeping it away just .. wasn't right.

No; like most of the women here, Haku had been wide awake, and in the process of trying on some of her new wardrobes. She'd never had real silk kimonos before. And now, she had so many of them to choose from, all specifically designed to fit her! It had taken some time--two hours worth of dedication--to learn the proper way of dressing, but she couldn't get the obi on herself, so help was needed at first; and while they were helping to teach her, several of the women would not stop fawning over her, as though she were a little doll. They demanded to play with her hair, brush it out, pin it up in various styles that they felt to be good. Then they would undo it all and have her try on another kimono, in a different color, or with other designs, or wrap another obi firmly around her. When all was done, the process would repeat after another chorus of exclamations; "You're going to grow up to be so beautiful!" "What soft hair you have! And the length!" "The color matches your eyes so well! It brings out the lighter tone of them." "What delicate skin, like porcelain!" And Haku would blush, recoiling each time. It wasn't that she was ungrateful. Recieving compliments and affections had been absent for such a long time in her life...

A particularly mature woman, with naturally very red lips and small, dark eyes had been tutoring the little girl in the art of makeup. First came the foundation, to pale the face. Blush to add the lost color back into the cheeks. Then lipstick, a smooth layer of crimson, followed by eyeshadow and possibly mascara. She had been advised against anything too heavy, lest it take away from her wide, round eyes; a simple shade of grey or a light touch of darker blue would do nicely. But when Gatou had barged in, he had been very impatient, so the lesson was cut tragically short. Luckily for her the rest was just an explanation about colors and what looked best. For tonight, after much debate, a midnight blue kimono was the choice. Stitched into each sleeve and the bottom were gold and blue designs, flowers she had supposed given the shapes they seemed to create--but she wasn't positive. They were rather obscure. Beneath resided a white yukata. Covered in similar designs was the obi, of a soft golden. The only complaint that was held was the tightness of the obi. If not for the fact that all of the women wore them in this manner, she would have wondered if they were trying to suffocate her; but little by little she was growing more accustomed to it. Now, blessed as she were with little feet, walking was the least issue of concern. Actually she maneuvered quite well, especially down stairs, something she'd come to realize when following Gatou. Down, down, down...one step at a time, until--the ground floor.

"Remember, hold your head up. Make eye-contact; it's bad manners not to, got it?" Curious, that he felt the need to drill her on simple things such as that. It caused her head to tilt just the slightest to the left, until the strange being shot a stern frown over one shoulder. Haku was not very tall for her age, but then again, Gatou wasn't, either; so his height was little more than hers. If she wanted, she could stand on her tip-toes and peer over the top of his head. For the sake of not making any bad impressions, silly behaviour like that was refrained, though the thought did cause her to bite back the start of a smile. He motioned with one hand for her to wait. There were many rooms where the workers were allowed to enjoy themselves, to relax with each-other, all of which were on the first level. These rooms, it had been informed, were also used as 'viewing rooms' for customers. One room in particular, the most popular and largest, resided off to the back, the fact that it was unmatched evident by its solitary location. She had seen it earlier; but it interested her little, so she had not remained long. Silently Haku watched her employer scurry almost towards this particular room, and then disappear behind the hanging curtain called a door.

This left her eyes to wander around aimlessly. She'd already seen everything that was of interest here in the lobby, which took away a good portion of the 'interest' factor. Overhead hung two miniature chandeliers. They looked out of place, given the style of the rest of the establishment, and yet somehow their elegance was still appreciated by the surroundings. Spread apart so that both combined filled the entire lobby with the artificial light, in retrospect, it was no surprise they would be well-recieved; if not for them, the room would be plunged into total darkness.

Gatou's hand moved the fabric hanging from that lone doorway aside. However, it was a larger, far more deadly hand that took over the job. Emerging behind Haku's employer was quite possibly the most frightening man she had ever laid eyes on. He loomed over Gatou with ease. Towering, that hand attatched to an equally-powerful arm, covered from the knuckles to elbow by carefully-sewn off-grey, blue cloth. The same articles were fashioned for each leg; extending from their coverage of black sandal-clad feet, up until shortly below knee-length. Had they been sewn by him? .. Strange, he didn't look at all like the type to take on tasks like that. Everything else was black. Black, covering the rest of his legs, and his chest, but bandages concealed the assumedly thicker neck. They wound their way up around the lower portion of his face, even the majority of his nose.. so that the only visible feature were two rather sharp, cruel eyes. Dark. They were dark, and they seemed to pierce straight down into Haku's soul the moment they found her own wide orbs. Shoulders were visible; the shirt posessed no sleeves. But those arms gave a firm enough impression on the rest of the body.

There was something stranger than any of this man's features, though. Turned so that the gleaming plate pressed against the side of his head instead of the forehead, was Kirigakure's symbol. Four small lines tilted to the right. The metal piece was set on black fabric. The ends were tied so that the two long strands dangled over his shoulder, to sway with every movement, no matter how subtle. This man was a soldier of sorts. Or, that's what she had gathered, with the little bits of information gathered over the years.

Only when Gatou presented him with a key did it occurr to Haku that he was buying her. Behind the powder, behind the blush, a real rush of color rose. What was she supposed to do? Introduce herself? Greet him? Lead him upstairs? Or was there something else to be done before those events took place..? But it seemed her feet had suddenly sprung roots, which dug firmly into the soft carpet below. No matter how she tried, they wouldn't budge.. All little Haku could do was stare. Not at her boss, but the mountain of a man dwarfing him, at those unnerving eyes as cold and unforgiving as a demon's.

A new sound crept within range of hearing. Hushed whispers. Whispers of... what? She could hardly hear them. Now and then a word caught on; 'demon', 'Momochi', and for some reason, 'hidden'. Like a code, waiting to be deciphered. There was no time for it; Gatou, from behind those tinted glasses, shot his newest item a sharp glare.

"What are you doing? Don't keep him waiting!" Came the order, barked with surprising irritation. Somehow, Haku had lost herself in those eyes. The initial response was to apologize, started out with a quick bow, and her fingers momentarily laced together nervously. Already she had disappointed! Did this man regret his decision? If he had chosen one of the others, the more experienced ones, then...

--Again her thoughts were interrupted by that rude voice. "Stupid girl! Are you trying to treat Za--" Her buyer's hand stopped the sentence from continuing. It raised, motioning silence, those eyes fixating instead on the brothel's owner. Yet he didn't look angry at all. Well.. not with her, anyway. The hostility seemed instead directed at Gatou. Gatou's mouth snapped closed. Instead of lowering, she was summoned with the twitch of a single finger: "Follow me", the action spoke clearly.

Haku did not object. She did not hesitate up the stairs, trailing the heels of the man who had bought her company for the night; she did not hesitate down the hall, or even into the room the particular key presented opened the door to.

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Gatou was up to something; it was written all over that weasely face of his. Why would he put his newest girl in the posession of the feared Demon of Kirigakure? It failed to make sense. He was throwing a lamb into the lion's den, knowing full-well what the end result would be. The key was jammed rudely into its lock, allowing the knob to twist open, and with one thrust the door swung open. Zabuza stepped inside. Aah.. yet again something so nostalgically familiar. All of the rooms were designed the same, save for small differences one wouldn't even notice, whether it be the blankets a different color, paintings and tapestries on the walls, or the movement of a lamp or nightstand. They almost resembled hotel rooms. The walls were painted a creme color, except for the panes of the doors, which, like the doors, were wood. Leading out onto a small balcony was a set of doors, windows with handles on them, barely visible behind red silk curtains. And beyond the balcony resided the outside world, in all its bitter, bloody glory.

Only when he heard the door click closed again did he glance back at his companion for the night. Her expression was not cheery, thank God. However, on the same token, it could not be considered 'afraid'. No, nervous would do well, and naturally unsure. There was still innocence in this one. She could look him in the eyes without any qualm.

What a delicate flower she was, no doubt completely untouched by the unforgiving hands of men. As always, there was one thing about these women that irked him, something he addressed immediately:

"Take off that stupid mask."

She was confused. It showed, clearly, in her expression, the way the corners of her lips sloped slightly downward, and her eyes widened, thin brows shifting together. An amused chuckle rose in his throat. He closed the gap between them, lifting both hands to the little girl's face, fingertips resting barely on each cheek. Outlined against the bandages was a smirk. Again he tried; "The makeup. Get rid of it."

The room was dark; a switch resided on the wall to the left of the door, but neither had bothered to flick it on yet. The room was very spaceous. Wood floors, a wood-framed bed--the furniture was all created out of this building resource. There were two other doors here. Further into the room, built into the wall to the right of the bed, was a closet most likely. The other was closer to the entrance; it was open, dark silouhettes of a commode, sink, and further in, a glass panel leading into the bath and shower. The bathroom easily compared to half the size of the actual bedroom. The girl quickly bowed her head, having finally understood his order now, and with a quick turn she hurried into the bathroom, closing the door. But the sound of rushing water could still be heard.

He allowed himself to be lost to this sound. Back pressed firmly against the wall, his head tilted enough to fixate narrowed eyes in that particular direction. It was soothing, the faucet, though it made him laugh inwardly that this was true. Water had always been on his side, whether he be swimming, or merely watching ripples die on the reflective surface. How long ago had it been since he'd last stood on the beach, staring out at the waves, musing as the sun's setting cast rays of orange and red out as far as he could see? And then the sun would disappear completely, leaving only darkness. Once-crystal waters turned black. Like a new world, night was, foreign and even dangerous.

The last time he'd stood on the beach, night did not have to fall to turn the water dark. And it was not dyed black, but deep crimson, drawn out by the tide only to be thrown back with brute force into the sand. The waves hammered at the beach, each time drawing back out, dragging with them the remaining proof that a violent battle had taken place here. The carnage would be spread along the ocean's bottom, for fish and other creatures this sea belonged to's enjoyment. In time not even bone would remain. Those whose lives had been thrown away? Only the water would recall their existence. How fortunate Zabuza was that he had not become one of these men.

Not that he had ever once considered he might have died there. No; they were all weak, lacking the will to survive. He was a warrior. A demon. To think even briefly that his life would be lost to worthless creatures like them? Hilarious.

The rush of the water was gone. It no longer filled his ears, and in turn his mind. Zabuza returned to that brothel, to that room, to the young companion returning from her task of scrubbing the artificial beauty off her face.

With the makeup gone, her true colors shone through without difficulty. She was a shy little thing, this girl, this .. child. Shy and innocent. Her eyes especially captivated him. So wide, doe-like by far, and they seemed always fixated upon him--even when his back was to her their presence could still be felt. Did she really hold no fear? Ah, but she was new, Gato had said. Just arrived that morning, leaving no time for the tales to be told. Again those lips pulled back into a smirk, pressed against tight wrappings. "Good girl."

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It stood to reason that his request took Haku by surprise. After all, the other women had made it sound as though without makeup, they were hideous--not that she agreed by any means. Maybe that was just how men viewed them? But why was this man the exception? Maybe they had been wrong? Misguided?

Not that Haku didn't obey. Yes, she should have been more grateful for the help everyone had given her putting it all on, but.. she really didn't like wearing it. In a way, it made her feel .. fake. So scrubbing off the makeup was something she did with haste. Gatou wouldn't want her to keep him waiting. He'd yell at her, going on about how rude she was, tell her she was doing a pathetic job, and how she was disgracing herself... But she didn't -mean- to mess up. She was new to this; did he really expect her to know everything right away? It was like a new world, this place, this brothel. A new home, and a new world combined. She was supposed to please any man who paid. Gatou had been clear on that fact. Please them!

So how exactly did one go about pleasing another? .. That, on the other hand, he hadn't explained very well. He'd avoided the subject like the plague. Always coughing, clearing his throat, averting his gaze.. then looking terribly cross, followed by mild yelling. But it was never really directed towards her. Any other girl who wandered by, it was like he purposely found something to get angry with them about. A distraction. He was a strange, yet silly man at times. Without answers, her mind had come up with one of its own: the customer would say what to do! That made perfect sense, didn't it? That was the perfect way to please someone, to do as they wished.

When finally the washcloth stopped its furious rubbing, she peeked into the mirror, examining her complexion carefully. No, not a speck of the so-called 'mask' remained. Not even eyeshadow, or lipstick. It had all been wiped away, the last bit of color swirling down the drain before the water was shut off. The cloth was folded neatly up and placed aside for later cleaning.

She pulled the door open. Instantly that brown gaze fell upon him; the man, the soldier assumedly. Instead of making himself comfortable, it seemed he'd been waiting for her to finish. Quietly, after flicking the light off in the bathroom, Haku slipped out into the actual room, silent footsteps carrying her back over to the one who had paid so much money for her.

"Good girl." The praise caught her off-guard. A little squeak followed closely behind a blush, but this only brought forth more amused chuckles, his entire body trembling from each eruption. Again those brows of hers furrowed. Out stuck her lower lip, just slightly. Barely enough to be noticed.

And somehow, he caught it. That towering form turned fully to face her. Before she could react, strong hands had found her cheeks; instinctively she flinched. But he didn't hurt her. His fingers curled, tips caressing the spot where the blush had been, until she could feel it returning fully. "What is your name, child?" His eyes bore straight into hers. They never moved, even as he lowered himself to his knees, lowering his height to her level.

A lump had risen in her throat. Her tongue, somehow, had dried up, and no amount of swallowing seemed to do any good. Was this fear? No. She did not fear this man.. So many things ran across her mind in that moment. So many feelings. Locked deep in her chest, her heart pounded furiously. "Ha..." The rest died. That thumb had found its way down to her lower lip. It ran along the smooth, rosepetal surface, meanwhile his eyes danced about in her own. He was waiting patiently for a reply. What was her name again...? Oh, that was right--! "..Haku... sir..."

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So the little flower did in fact have a name all her own? Haku. What a lovely name it was, too. This girl had no idea what she was supposed to be doing. Furthermore, did it even occur to her what -he- was allowed--and had intended--to do to her? Mm...his mouth watered just looking at his newest prey. Hidden beneath layers of silk rested that body, a body he craved on an almost animalistic level. It was damn near unbearable! What was Gatou thinking, throwing this lamb into the lion's den, he found himself once more questioning. Was the old buffoon out of his mind? Not that Zabuza hadn't considered this before. For God's sake, the only thing the man did in life was run a whorehouse. Sure, it was one of the--if not absolutely the--best in the city, possibly country...but, it was quite perverse. Gatou had to be in his fourties, if not close to pushing fifty entirely. He catered to the sexual desires of frustrated men, especially young, with a well-trained crew of prostitutes worth every cent charged. What did that say about -his- sexual life? Did he even have one?

... Who in their right mind would want to touch that old bastard, anyway? The very thought was repulsive, and it wasn't entirely because the Momochi was as straight as they came. Not even Gatou's personality could be considered 'attractive'. He was a money-hungry, beady-eyed parasite, with a grin as annoying as his nasaly voice. Those glasses didn't do anything for his appearance, either. His eyes screamed untrustworthy. Any person with a half-functioning brain could tell that right off the bat. Granted, the man did know how to select his employees well. Where did he scrounge most of them up? These women weren't the average gutter trash. This one in particular proved it.

Where, indeed, had he found this little creature? Haku. It was baffling. Once more that craving struck, creating a thick crease between thin, barely existent brows. Now, now; no need to rush, came the mental scolding. The night was in its prime. Zabuza was no amateur when it came to hunting. This little rabbit would get her scare, soon enough, and the fun would begin. Until then...

Until then, there was no harm in acting. What did she see him as? What was the perception of those gentle eyes, full of unbridled purity, on a bloodsplattered soul? It intrigued Zabuza. It intrigued him, more than expected, more than anything had in the past... how long? Months, years? Hm, curious. He leaned forward, to peer closer into her dewy pools. Again digits caressed her cheeks, before slipping down to her shoulders. Yes...this little girl captured him, in a way he'd never been caught before. Even if he'd wanted, he couldn't leave, when he could hardly stand to look away. So pure. A low growl emitted from the depths of his throat. The distance between them was so small, against his her lips brushed; sending warmth burning straight through the bandages. "Mm.. Good girl.. Haku."

Beneath his hands he could feel her shoulders tense. The little rabbit was ready to flee, having sensed danger on the horizon. Why, then, did she not resist, as crafty hands slipped down and around her waist to remove the fastener; her obi? The clothing may have been beautiful, and quite expensive, but that didn't mean Zabuza cared for it. Once undone, he tossed it rather rudely off to the side somewhere. That had been the only true restraint. The kimono fell easily open, and the yukata below followed after the removal of a matching sash.

To his surprise, she was not nude underneath. Her chest was bare, but unlike most of the other females in the establishment, this one actually preferred to wear undergarments to conceal her .. lower regions. Naturally; they were far more private than the breasts. As for those, Haku was not flat-chested per se; they were quite small, but it was a quality of age, not underdevelopment. In time she'd grow.

For now, the lower body was ignored. His hands found her shoulders again, but this time they moved to her neck, fingers wriggling their way beneath the neckline of her displaced clothing, and with ease he brushed the thick material of both kimono and yukata off her form. It was a chain reaction; first her shoulders, then her arms and full chest were exposed, seconds passing before they were pooled around her feet.

One last article. If ever a moment where she might fight, this would have been it, most definitely. But once more she surprised him. When he knelt, her legs parted slightly, enough to allow him to slip her underwear down those slender little legs. There was so much he could have done in that instant, and for a split second each possibility raced through his mind, producing another low growl. She -was- a child, after all. It was no lie, it was no illusion. Her body was so young. It was--

--White. She was white, as her name informed. Pure. He started at her outer thighs, running each hand up along her newly-forming curves; and she lifted her arms obediently, watching through half-dazed eyes. Up her sides, to her youthful breasts, pausing to silently muse over her tiny pink nipples, then their direction changed. While one hand withdrew to rest on his knee, the other stroked down her flat stomach.

The more he studied her, a sickness began to grow within the pit of his being. Directly below her middrift he stopped. He couldn't will himself to go further, even if he'd wanted. What was this? What kind of stunt was Gatou trying to pull, selling him a brat? What a waste of good money, he irritatedly chided. That idiot'd hear about this in the morning, damnitall. He couldn't take her. --..Well, really, he -could-. There was nothing stopping him, not even his own guilt. What did he owe this girl, that he should spare her the torture, especially at such a young age? She was here, which automatically made her fair game. Suddenly, the urge for sex had withered and died for the night. As attractive as she were... It was gone.

His disappointment must have reflected in those normally cruel eyes, because she responded to it automatically, kneeling herself so that they were somewhat closer to eyelevel. She was frowning; worried? It was her boss's stupidity, not her own that had gotten them into this situation. Didn't she realize that? .. But the concern in her expression did not seem directed to her own state at all, or the possibility that Gatou might punish her in the morning. It was something.. deeper. In her eyes, he realized, he saw only himself. A brow quirked.

Did it not bother her at all, that she was naked in front of a man she had never seen before, and would likely never see again? When she finally spoke, it confirmed that no, she didn't seem to have noticed. "Are you well? Would you like a glass of water..?"

"Get dressed." This order, unlike the previous, was cold; it took her by surprise, in a different way entirely, to the point where he could have sworn she'd begun to tremble. But, obediently she snatched up her clothing, slipping into only her undergarments and the yukata, actually taking the time to fight with the sash until settling on a haphazard little bow. The kimono was, neatly, gathered up in her arms, to be placed with the obi--which was snatched up along the way--in a chair near the bed. All of this, he watched silently. She was not clumsy. Her hands appeared very nimble, yet she had trouble with properly dressing herself. Where -had- Gatou found this rare little gem? Certainly not in a place that pampered. It hadn't been overlooked that she did not fully dress herself; and, judging by her handiwork with her underclothing, it was less likely that she knew how to return the kimono and obi to its proper respectful state. To this, he chuckled. This would prove to be a very interesting night, Haku had already shown.

For a brat, she was easy to be around, not to mention easy on the eyes. With a grunt, Zabuza rose to his feet again, making his presence once more noticeable by stepping further into the room. The floorboards creaked unappreciatively beneath his weight, sturdy as they were. When the little girl turned back to him, it was with a deep bow, her hands clasped firmly together at her abdomen. "Nn?"

"Forgive me, sir. What is your name...?"

.. He'd not thought about that. Not from the beginning, not for a second. Introductions. How rude of himself. Poor girl; why hadn't she asked -sooner-? His left brow twitched. Those long, muscular arms lifted, to fold across his chest, and his head bowed. But once more she had managed to amuse him. Soft laughter, closer to chuckling than the true sound, but it held a slightly lighter note to it. Outsmarted, by a child. "Momochi Zabuza."

This would be an interesting night, indeed.

----End Chapter 2----


	3. Shelter

Chapter 3 of the fanfic, up and running! I'd like to thank the people who have read the story thus far. I know, it hasn't been much.. --the story I mean. Not the readers! Thank you, thank you, thank you; all of you. And, especially thank you to those of you who have taken the time to write beautiful, inspiring reviews. You've really kept me going. Even if there was only one person who read this, I'd still keep writing it, for that one person. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. And, I sincerely apologize if this chapter is incredibly disappointing. I have no idea why it turned out so... crappy. The details are all out of whack, the personalities are falling deeper and deeper down the crapper. I'll try to make the next chapter, and the ones after that, better. If I fail... please have faith. And try to keep reading. I don't -intentionally- disappoint, so, you have my word I'll try my hardest. I did my best with this one, but.. well, sometimes things just don't work out the way we want them to. Next time. On a random note, I keep finding myself wishing so deeply that I could actually write Zabuza a happy ending... (But we all know how well that works. I.e., it -doesn't-. Hope that doesn't spoil anything?)

Don't hurt meeee! It's like, 1:21 AM, and I have school tomorrow. I wanted to finish this chapter up, so I can get started with the next one. And so you guys can have something to read. Be prepared; eventually we're going to get to a chapter of filler. But, promise, it won't take after the Naruto anime. I'm not -that- bad!

.. One final author's note. If you haven't discovered this yet, don't worry, I don't think it's painfully obvious at this moment, but... I do have an obsession with putting song titles as the titles for these things. Hey; got to give credit to the inspiration, right? And, who knows, maybe by the end of this you'll get a better idea of the -horrible- music I love. Kidding, kidding.

**Chapter 3: Shelter**

"She's a child."

"Is she? Men seem to be attracted to the younger ones, nowadays. Don't you agree?"

"She is a child, Gatou."

"Ah.. but Zabuza-san, you had no problem with it last night. If it's such a problem now, then don't buy her. Not that I'd ever expect you to waste your money on her again, anyway."

"..Yeah... You're right."

"Come, let me buy you a drink! How about it?" ...

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The first thing that Haku was vaguely aware of when she awoke, was the absence of another presence in the room. The chair her buyer had seated himself in was still in position beside the bed, but the feel of those eyes fixated intently on her was no longer there, to both her relief and dismay. He had vanished. How long ago did he leave, and where was he going? Had he spoken to Gatou on the way out? Was he feeling somewhat better, or had the night made things worse than it had appeared at the time..?

One eye cracked open, followed hesitantly by the other. Groggily she rolled over, and her gaze fell once registered on that now-empty chair. The red curtains had been drawn and tied, allowing from those large glass doors the morning light to spill in; bathing the bed and floor in its warming rays. A blue sky stretched endlessly out into the visible distance. Not a cloud in the sky, creating the atmosphere of an almost perfect day, straight down to the faint songs from birds as they perched out of sight or fluttered past the balcony. She couldn't help smiling.

But the chair did leave a small bruise on her heart. He'd vanished, just like he'd arrived, that masked man with the dark eyes.

A good portion of the night had been spent conversing; he would ask questions, and she did her best to explain, occasionally offering something for him to respond to if he felt like it. Never anything too personal, treading carefully to avoid ruffling any feathers. The question that stuck out most was his inquiry about her name. Was Haku really such an unusual name? It didn't seem so... His eyes had narrowed when he'd asked if it was her real name. Of course; the name she was given at birth. Her age? Fifteen.

Then he'd asked something that made her smile, and laugh--though just a little: how old did she think he was? It hadn't occurred to her. Really, she hadn't considered that he might have an age, as childish as it sounded. The conversation continued from there, spreading from ages to somehow the decorations down in the lobby; her puzzling over where some of them could have come from, while he nodded now and then or struck up two or three words.And when she yawned, he'd ordered her to sleep. Which, she had done with no difficulty.

Now Haku dearly wished that she had not. If she'd remained awake, then she could have at least said goodbye to him. Maybe, with some luck, he would have still been there, and their light talking could have continued just a little while longer...

--A knock on the door made her scramble off the bed and onto her feet. The door opened while she was slipping on her zori, tapping one foot at a time on the floor to gain a bit more comfort. It wasn't Gatou; thankfully. Instead, the same woman who had been helping her yesterday stepped into the room. The beautiful woman, with small yet gentle eyes, whose lips never needed to be painted. Haku stopped all movement. She was like a goddess. Flowing raven locks poured over each shoulder and down her back, reaching beyond a well-curved waist to curl just slightly at the very ends. On top of a scarlet kimono and gold-embroidered obi rested a darker red robe, gold trim running along its full length, reaching down to trail the floor. She wore little makeup herself; a note of foundation and hints of eyeshadow, but that was all that Haku could detect. The rest was natural. A hand lifted, fingertips resting on her lower lip; but she seemed preoccupied with something else as the room was taken into survey.

"Gatou-san sent me to get you. Please, follow me..." The words were spoken slowly, politely. However, she turned back to the door, a sea of red and black, and in a moment had disappeared, sending Haku in a mad fit to catch up to her. She was supposed to see him, like this? No time to freshen up, or at least get her kimono back on? A despairing glance was shot back over her shoulder at the mass of blue, remaining still where it had been placed hours before. Couldn't she at least brush her teeth and straighten out her hair? It had all but fallen from its hold, and the strands had gotten themselves into tangles. But, she didn't dare state any of this. It was not her place to argue, for all Gatou was doing for her by allowing her to work and live under him. Closing the door behind her, she hurried along the wide hall until she fell in direct line behind the older woman, careful not to step on the train of her robe. It was strangely quiet so far, even for morning; on arrival yesterday around the same time, the entire establishment had seemed thriving. Female voices had flitted from all directions, and there were girls of all ages wandering from room to room or loitering the halls. Now, everything was sleeping, or so she guessed. It couldn't be dead, which was unfortunately the next step up the chain.

The halls of the brothel were all dimly-lit, having no windows. Their lightsource stemmed from small Oriental paper lanterns spaced evenly along the ceiling. Running along the wooden floors were red carpets matching the one downstairs, differing only by lack of design on their surfaces. They always seemed to remain smoothed out, no matter how many feet walked over them; it was amazing. On both sides of this hall were doors, to more bedrooms naturally. Each girl was given a real bedroom to sleep in, a permanent one, but those were at the complete other end of the brothel. These ones were strictly for business. Men were not allowed in their given bedrooms, under any circumstances, Gatou had made sure to remind over and over. Personally, Haku didn't see the difference between taking care of business in either area; a bedroom was a bedroom. But if he said it, then it was law.

The end of the hall came into view, and in turn so did the top of the stairs. Haku stopped on the first step to watch the other woman. She moved with grace, faltering not once on her descent despite the burden her clothing should have placed on movement. She almost looked as though she were floating; never stepping on her robes, not even after the last step was cleared, and she was peering patiently back up at her younger coworker. When she saw that Haku was still following, her walking resumed, and the two made their way across the lobby to the lone viewing room in the back. Moving aside to clear the way, she lifted the fabric for Haku, releasing it only when she too had entered the room.

As expected, Gatou was settled quite comfortably on the couch facing the door, one short leg crossed over the other. Clad in another dark suit--almost black--, with those small tinted glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. On each side were fellow workers, two on the left and one to the right; one of his hands had busied itself with groping one of the bustier woman's breasts while the other two cooed over their employer.

And, Haku found herself feeling sick. Something about the sight simply did not do well for her stomach, as little as she wanted to disrespect her boss. But she forced a nervous smile, in hopes of giving the impression that it didn't phase her, and that her mind was solely centered on both her daily tasks and the possible reasons for this summoning. Gatou showed his appreciation for her feigned devotion by offering a smile of his own, as twisted as it were; the man didn't seem to be able to honestly smile to save his life. It came across as more of a perverted leer than anything else. Meanwhile his female companions shot glares in her direction, as if to say, 'this is our territory; don't even think about trying anything.' That was fine; they could have him. -She- certainly didn't want him.

Alas, this only led her to wonder what exactly about him made them so... posessive. Was he really that wonderful a man, that they couldn't stand to share his time with anyone else? He didn't seem like a gentleman, not with the way he cursed and shouted, or the way he seemed to lack modesty. And he certainly didn't seem very friendly on a personal basis, either; what he'd shown her the morning he had found her was more a curious sort of glee. He'd been considerate, yes, and hadn't rushed her on deciding whether or not to go with him. Actually, he was the one who'd suggest she think it over first. But what was there to think about, when you'd been living on the streets with no one to notice your existence, and suddenly out of the blue someone offers not only a hand to take, but a real home to come back to? For such a long time she had been completely and utterly alone. Just when she'd lost all hope...

.. The more she saw him, as the day had progressed, the more she realized, and even now still confirmed, that he was no saviour. He did not give her a fresh start out of love or compassion. He probably just lost one of his usual girls, or felt like a new addition would be nice. She could not fault him, nor would she ever feel anger or resentment towards him, since no matter what the motive on his end, she was home now. This was where she belonged. That was why she smiled, a true smile, and tipped her head in a respectful bow. "Gatou-san."

Both feet planted on the floor, and he leaned forward, peering across the room at the room's newest inhabitants from above the rims of his glasses. That grin never left his face. "Ah, Haku, Haku. Good. Thank you, Umeko." Rustling behind Haku caused her to spare a tiny glance backwards, in time to catch the bow of the woman who had escorted her.

So Umeko was her name..? How lovely. This bit of information was stored, and her attention returned automatically to Gatou, whose hand had begun behaving again as it should have from the beginning. Of course, this was apparently to the disappointment of the other women, who settled back with mild annoyance and pouts gracing thickly-painted lips. Resting against the table in the center of the cluster of couches, directly in front of the group, was the older man's cane; leaning further forward the head was grasped firmly so that the item could be dragged over while he uncrossed his legs and rose. Yet he did not lean against it, as it should have been used. No; he stood sturdy on his own. And he walked fine, too, not a trace of limp in either limb. Around the table, maneuvering between the arms of two couches, until he felt close enough to Haku to continue their one-sided conversation.

"So tell me, did you have fun on your first night..?" All eyes were on Haku. Waiting, listening; almost expecting. For some reason, her hands had begun shaking sometime during the meeting. Something did not feel right. From Gatou's eager grin, to the glares of his assumed mistresses over yonder, even to the patient gaze of Umeko behind her; beneath them all she cowered, in fear and in confusion. There had been something very important that she had missed out on, and at least four of the five people standing by knew. Not only knew, but seemed to think that she knew, too. What was she supposed to say? Yes? No? Was she supposed to talk about what had happened? Had that man spoken to Gatou; yes, of course he had, but.. what did he say? Was Gatou angry? On the contrary; as if sensing the fear in her wide, innocent eyes, Gatou's head reared back in a burst of laughter. "Zabuza had a nice talk with me earlier, before he left. Do you know what he said?" But of course, he hadn't really wanted an answer from her. That was why before she could even begin to speculate, he again spat out, "He said that you are a good girl. A good girl, Haku!"

... She was... a good girl? A good girl? She lowered her head to hide both her rapidly increasing confusion, and the hints of a blush that were invading her cheeks. She..was... a .. good girl..? Honestly, if not for the fact that the man himself who'd apparently said this did not sound to her like someone who teased, the comment would have come across as more of a crude insult. From Gatou's mouth, yes; it was mockery of the highest degree. But from that strange man she'd met last night? ... No. He'd meant it. Though it didn't particularly make sense either way. Unfortunately, Gatou seemed too entertained by his own thoughts on the subject to be bothered giving an explanation, whether she were to ask or not. The conversation between Gatou and last night's customer was lost.

This conversation seemed to have died, too; but at least he'd settled into a quieter gigglefit--disturbing and funny as it were. She couldn't stomach any more of this nonsense. With a bow, she turned from the room, releasing a hidden sigh of relief when he did not call her back. Back out into the lobby, but when she neared the staircase, an extra pair of footsteps echoed in unison with her own: Haku stopped to look back, and sure enough Umeko was following. Following. A new glint had entered once soft eyes; nothing she'd ever witnessed before, sending a shiver creeping its way up her spine.

"We will talk in private this afternoon, Haku."

Numbly, the small girl nodded.

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"--Or white flowers?"

That caught the Momochi's attention. From where he was seated at the desk, that head lifted from its propped position, his arm that had been holding it up sinking lower and lower towards the hard surface. For once during the decoration planning for the funeral, not only was he paying attention, but his head servant recieved possibly the most unguarded stare given in their new master's history. And he said his first word in hours: "What?"

Seijirou wasn't the least bit bothered by this. He simply pushed his glasses further up on his nose, cleared his throat, and tried again. "For the floral arrangements. Would you prefer a mixture of colors, yellow, red, or white flowers?"

The bandages usually wrapping his face were absent, since he was in the 'comfort' of his own home; so the deep frown was perfectly visible. It was the old man's funeral, not his. Why ask -him- what -he- wanted? Based on what he'd known about his father, the man hadn't cared for flowers of any sort, especially after Zabuza's mother passed on. Then again, by that fact alone catering to the dead man's likes would mean no decorations at all, something that would come off as disrespectful to the rest of the distant relatives that would also be attending. Go figure he couldn't win. He'd just pick the best of the choices, for their sake.

A nice combination of colors might lift the spirits if things became too dreary or depressing. And who knew; maybe it would make his father smile down on them just once more in his miserable life before his body was finally laid to rest. The man hadn't been particularly cold, nor cruel... but as a military man, strict rules were constantly in place, and if disobeyed the consequences were always painful. That was what Zabuza remembered--and loathed--most; punishment. By all means, he was in no way abused as a child. And he scarcely disobeyed, feeling no desire to rebel. But, damnit when he did screw up, as all children have the tendency to do in their lives...

His mother, on the other hand, was the gentlest, sweetest, most beautiful woman, with the voice of an angel. It was only for her that his father smiled, for her and for the son that they raised together.

Too bad Zabuza had never smiled back, and now never would.

Aside from memories of the past that still lurked in the walls surrounding him now, there was something else too that troubled Zabuza's mind. Well... not troubled; just distracted. Horribly. White flowers. It was this very thing, that caused him to murmur a simple name, one that by all logic should have been forgotten the moment he'd walked out of that whorehouse.

Perceptive as always, Seijirou's ears must have picked it up, because thick brown eyebrows rose up above the rims of his glasses. "White? Good choice, sir."

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Whoever had said that once you leave, you can never come back was dead-wrong. At least to Zabuza this was the case. Every time he stepped foot on the grounds of his former home, he resented it. He resented every part of it, down to the tiniest details; and now, he resented it even more.

He resented the fact that whereas in the past nothing seemed to change, everything was different now, suddenly, with his father gone. With nothing better to do with the remaining daylight hours, he'd opted to survey his inheritance in his own way.

Once the decorations for the funeral had been decided upon and Seijirou had left to speak with the other servants about the arrival of the former master's family, Zabuza was abandoned at the hands of his memory's mercy. Every room in -his- estate held something different, something locked tightly away to be reawakened with the turn of an imaginary key; these doors that he longed to keep forever closed could no longer be contained. Could it be, that the Momochi himself was depressed?

Hardly. That was one thing that would -never- happen. The old bastard was gone, good riddance. He didn't care. It was the walls confining him now that dragged out this rather irritatedly empty mood tugging the strings of his heart. Once you leave, you can never come back; what a lie. Once you leave, something always drags you back, kicking and screaming, no matter how far away you run from it. That was what he had discovered, again and again, with the persistant letters that followed from camp to camp, city to city, even battlefields over the years. Letters that he always ended up burning with pleasure.

Empty words, each of those letters had contained, he'd always convinced his stone heart. They were empty words. 'Please come home.' 'I don't hate you, I never have.' 'No matter what kind of man you have become, you are still my only son.' Didn't the man take the time to realize that Zabuza had never been this son he spoke of? From a young age, it had always been obvious to not only himself, but those around him--including his parents--that he was not like the others. He was not like the other children, who preferred to run outside with their friends and play games until the sun began to set. He was not like the other children, whose innocent minds led them to believe that the fighting was not real, except in the form of Cowboys and Indians, and that they would grow up with the comfort of parents, siblings, and the knowledge that they were and always would be loved. Zabuza was not like them. While the other children laughed and carried on in their sheltered lives, the smell of blood had already reached his nose; exciting, intoxicating, polluting away any trace of so-called 'innocence' he had posessed. From the background he observed the real world; one day the games would end, their friends would disappear. Eventually the sun would set, never to rise again. The fighting was very real, and it was very much upon them, leaving casualties that in the end would most likely include their parents, siblings, and perhaps even they.

Why did the other children never realize, that Cowboys and Indians was the same game that the adults played, consisting of two sides fighting blindly for false ideals and the morbid glory of a murderer's victory? These children, who would grow into the adults that they so easily pretended did not exist, by playing their games were already tasting the fruits of war.

But Zabuza was different from them. He embraced the concept of death; though not his own. Rather, the death of others. He embraced at a young age the concept of killing, and traded his child's gloves for the blood-soaked hands of a soldier.

No.. not a soldier. A demon. He was a demon first. Only under the careful cultivation of a militaristic tyrant like his father did the soldier named Momochi Zabuza come into existence; however, that being was not long for this world, for unlike his father, dedicating his life to becoming a dog, easily replaced when deemed useless, whose only purpose was to fight for someone else's gain was not what he wanted. In an age where civil wars were constantly ripping apart their country, why should he die a senseless death for a cause he didn't give two shits about? ...

Flicking open his lighter, the newborne flame was raised, resting against the end of the cigarette pressed firmly between Zabuza's lips only long enough for it to catch. Then the flame was extinguished, lighter returned to the depths of his right pocket. He inhaled deeply, dragging in as much of the smoke as he could from the small cancerous stick, before slowly it was exhaled again, leaving a trail as he moved from one room to the next.

This had been his pattern for the past hour or so. Travelling from room to room, mentally engraving each one's image, and reminiscing about things he could no longer touch. Reminiscing on things that had not been overlooked, but instead ignored completely for so many years.

Each room he entered in his zombified wandering filled with the smoke from his cigarette, and soon each one held a dream-like quality through the gently suffocating haze. In the smoke, his memories took life; vivid, complete, preserved.

He was following a young boy through the house, a young boy whose strange world, long-since gone, sprang to life like a movie. Now, he followed him up the staircase, and down the hall of the upper story. This time nto a scarcely-furnished bedroom. Naturally, off to the far left of the large room resided an oversized bed, big enough for two to sleep in. There was a desk, with a dusty old lamp perched at one corner, and a single wooden chair that looked like it had not been pulled out in over a decade. On the opposite end of the wall, a window was built in. There was another door in this room, the only other one, and it was open, but in the shadow-filled room the outline of the clothes rack could be noted, along with the occasional hanger dangling from it.

On the dresser nestled in the corner were books, covered completey with dust. But they were large enough to be old school books. The boy grabbed up one of these books, and instantly the entire room transformed; the dust, neglect, none of it existed anymore, instead the room was restored to its old beauty. Even the ancient lamp was now turned on. Resting his school books on the desk in front of him, the boy withdrew the chair, and climbed his way onto the seat; absorbed in only the work he'd been assigned. Meanwhile, Zabuza had made himself comfortable sprawled out on his back on the bed, watching passively as he puffed idly on that cigarette of his.

Only when the boy walked out did the Momochi get to his feet and do the same, and the movie ended, the scene returning to its real form; down the hall, to another room, but this one was closed. Zabuza held no issue with simply opening the door, and so he did, stepping inside ahead of his illusionary companion.

Shelves of books lined every wall of this room, ending only long enough to allow three full-length windows to shine in their light. Like all the rooms in the estate, its size was a bit much, however this one's advantage was that the finely-carved desk in the back right took up a good deal of the floor area. An oversized plush chair had been left slightly ajar from the desk's alcove on the opposite side. Littering the top were pens and paper, abandoned by their owner, since he was after all deceased. This was his father's study.

No mind was paid to the bookshelves. Both sets of footsteps were silenced on the red carpet below--despite knowing one pair would not have made sound regardless. Over to the desk, but it was Zabuza who interacted with the environment this time. Fingertips brushed faintly against that soft, velvety champaign-colored backing, then he grabbed it, pulling it out enough to allow his exhausted body to collapse in it.

His body assumed the position that he'd oftentimes seen his father sitting in; leaning almost lazily back in that chair, with one arm dangling over the side while the opposite's hand curled thoughtfully beneath his chin. There was a distinct difference, though; usually it was a much thicker smell lingering in the air. His father had always been fond of cigars. Why, was completely beyond the demon of a man. They not only tasted disgusting, but they looked none-too good, either. Cigarettes at least killed with grace. So it was cigarette smoke this time filling the room in its entirety, not that of a cigar.

But, there was still that old ashtray among the piles of scrap. The same ashtray that had been used to put out cigars, was now used to crush out his cigarette finally; absently he grinded the burning end further and further against the bottom until the tiny sea of red glows had smothered out.

In this room, in the old man's chair, Zabuza's eyes slowly began to drift close, and soonly after he had drifted off into an uneasy slumber, coiling up in the chair like a child would.

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Gatou wasn't the only one with his hands full in the brothel. No; on the contrary. What really kept the girls in line was not the man they were working for, but someone much more... in-tune with their thoughts and feelings. It was someone who they could run to for a shoulder to cry on, for a listening ear, or just to converse and laugh with on a regular basis. It was someone who was not above them, nor acted as if they were.

Actually, the person with the second-most authority over the other women was one of them. What better person, really?

Most of the girls considered her the 'mother' of the group. She always seemed to have answers for everything; and with an endless supply of patience and understanding, it was no surprise that everyone loved her so dearly. She was an older woman, thirty-one, and of all the girls she had been working for Gatou the longest--oftentimes she would tell stories of the past, and of the women who had come before them, much to the delight of the others--, but her beauty was and always would be unparalleled, matched only by her inner strengths and heart.

However, Umeko was anything but vain. It was the others who considered her all these things, not she herself; another loveable trait on her side happened to be modesty. She also held an impeccable track record with those who had bought her in the past. They always came back, at one point or another, but one surprising thing about this particular woman was that it was very rare that the men who paid wanted her for her services in bed. They much preferred simply spending time with her, be it talking, going out for the evening, or watching her perform, for unlike the others her skills were very similar to that of a geisha. An artist, whose talents brought pleasure to those watching in the form of dance and song.

Gatou tended to favour her as well. Even when she corrected his errors, he avoided getting angry with her, finding something--or someone--else to vent his anger on. The two held a strange bond, the man with a temper as short as his height and the kind, motherly woman who he'd taken from her husband fourteen or so years prior just months after marriage due to skyrocketing debt and no money to pay it off. Her husband took little time in finding a new woman to share his life with, but even so Umeko regretted nothing; she'd been young, but nevertheless in love, so doing all that she could to give him back his life was only the right thing to do, something she still insisted on. And it wasn't as though her life were particularly difficult. As were the other girls, she was well-cared for.

Still, like any soft-hearted woman, she held some secrets locked tightly away in her chest. Secrets that no one knew existed, save for her employer, but they were only the barest assumptions as to what was going on. So it was quite a surprise when Gatou had told her that morning about a particular frequenter of the brothel and his return. Come to prey upon fresh meat, apparently, and with a laugh the owner had explained just how 'fresh' the meat he'd been thrown really was. Naturally he'd not noticed the paling of her features.

As agreed, now that the evening was drawing later in hours, Umeko was actually on her way across the wing to the private quarters of their family's newest addition. Her conversations with Gatou had been short, to the point; a rarety but blessing nonetheless given the circumstances. And there had been no men coming and going as payment permitted all day. Whether or not business would pick up later, she didn't concern herself with; if it did, it did, and if not then... there was nothing more to it. That meant that she, as well as the other girls, would finally get a dose of well-deserved rest. Not to say that their job was particularly difficult.

Sometimes... stepping back to take a breather is all that the spirit requires to pick itself up. Umeko knew this all-too well. She was willing to greet a vacation--even a single night--with open arms, and savor every individual second that passed by like it was the final moment she would live.

For now, the glamorous silk robes had been shed to reveal a simple white yukata, and her hair was brushed and pulled back with a thin strand of ribbon. Tonight, she needed no makeup; there was no one to impress. She was free to show her true appearance in its entirety. And what better person to show it to, than their new little girl? It seemed the right thing to do for getting to know someone.

She had already made the journey from her own room at the far end of the left wing down to the first floor lobby. What prevented her from returning upstairs to pay a visit to Haku, was actually something small, something unimportant. It was a new tapestry that had caught her interest. It didn't look any more expensive than the others, and it certainly didn't have any specific unique qualities that might set it apart. Set on black, the primary color used to weave the figure of what appeared to be an angel of sorts was gold, with lines of red or blue accenting areas of the clothing and wings. She peered over her shoulder, this angel, despite her back being turned against the harsh gaze of spectators, eyes sullen while small lips tilted downward. What looked like golden curls--only partially because of the thread--framed dainty features, and others fell to mesh with the full wings protuding from what would be bare flesh.

If there were new decorations about the brothel, then that probably meant Waraji and Zori had returned from their scouting duties. If this were the case, the only things they had returned with were the decorations, and no new employees for Gatou to pop a blood vessel over--since it was a well-known fact the two bodyguards held poor taste in women.

Waraji, having lost his left eye in a bar scuffle several years prior, naturally kept an eyepatch over the permanently damaged area. He was a big man, far taller than his partner, however... he could not be considered the brightest of men. Probably the very thing that had cost him half his vision in the first place. His fashion sense was a little off, this trait being one that did not help him any in the attractiveness department where he already lacked to begin with. And who could forget his sadistic tendencies, peeking out most often with talks of wanting to cut into skin? Both he and his partner shared a strange love for tattoos, though. Their bodies were covered by small, slender ink designs.

Zori was the smaller of the two. In a way, he was his slightly older partner's opposite. Shorter, smarter, far more attractive. His hair, unlike Waraji's brown, held more a silvery tint, hanging limply to each shoulder--a black beanie covering the top portion. He lacked the sadistic tendencies, and was generally a much friendlier, easygoing, if not perverted, younger male. What sort of women did he prefer? .. Wasn't that the question of the century. The stereotype he normally brought in were, well... to put it gently, tramps. Still... sometimes it grew difficult to believe that the two were not lovers, with the way they not only balanced each-other out, but moreso the way they tended to argue like an old married couple. They would argue everything from what color would look better for the carpet in the halls upstairs, to the best way to catch a runaway cat--without hurting it, Zori had to add in quickly before Waraji opened his big mouth about cutting it in two. It was no wonder Gatou constantly found himself annoyed by their presence, and thusly sent them out as often as possible.

Perhaps they had both been soldiers at one point in their lives, but had either left the service of their own free will or were forced to leave. Constantly at their sides were a set of katanas, which surprisingly they both knew how to use flawlessly.

It was probably Zori who had found this tapestry, as he had done the others. He held a good eye for detail. Waraji seemed more interested in more hands-on ornaments, like vases, or lanterns, or the large fans pinned ever-so carefully up above the front desk and door inside. Once, he had even helped create one, a gold-trimmed blue fan placed proudly in the center of two smaller ones.

The faint sound of Gatou's voice could barely be picked out from somewhere on the lower level. Whether or not he sounded angry, she couldn't tell, piquing her curiousity; was he speaking with the two aforementioned men?

With her attention focusing to one of the further rooms down the left hall, she failed to notice the creaking of the door until it was thrust rudely open. From outside rushed a cold gust of wind, and automatically she spun around towards it with a smile to offer a greeting to whomever felt the desire to disrupt the quiet state of the lobby.

"Wel--" But the looming beast in the doorway stole the breath right from her lungs. Umeko paled. Her hands began to shake, violently, and soon the rest of her body joined in, until it felt her knees would give out completely, and her full weight swayed to lean back against the desk for support.

He needed no, nor wanted a, greeting. The slightest movement of irises in her direction warned her of this. In a rare treat, just as her visage remained entirely unmasked, so did his. No bandages wrapped tightly around his face and neck, no hitai-ate draped haphazardly across his forehead. Each arm remained bare, exposing individual muscles as they flexed during his steps forward and the closing of the door behind him.

If she had not been so surprised, or if she had been younger, she might have blushed. As he moved closer to her area, a jingling sound caught her attention; her gaze dropped to one closed hand. Sure enough, held between two fingers rested a small pouch filled to the brim, which he paused long enough to toss to her, a gesture that only proved to louden the coins' jostling. Instead of taking the payment without question, the tiny black drawstring pouch was abandoned on the desk's surface. "Zabuza!"

He paused midway up the stairs. It was not a glare that he cast back at her; slightest amusement, but his expression seemed nothing short of exhausted. The corners of his eyes were bloodshot, beneath them darker than normal--even for his complexion's tone. Even his posture was not as straight as she remembered it being. What was she supposed to do? Let him go? Just like that? What did he want; who was his girl for the night, his little whore? She hurried up after him, trailing his heels like a puppy would its master. But it was not loyalty that drew her to the Momochi. It was curiousity. She wanted to know who it was that had the (dis)pleasure of this man's company, who it was that got the luxury of feeling that magnificent body so close to theirs, to hear that venomous voice whispering beautiful insults into their ear like the sweetest of compliments.

Strangely, he did not pay any attention to her as he went on with his business. Turning to the left, into the wing with the girls' bedrooms, knowing damn well he was not permitted to be there yet, not caring in the least the protests that burned behind Umeko's lips. Meanwhile, little by little the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place; now a question he'd posed to Gatou earlier that morning made perfect sense. A churning sensation began to form in the pit of her stomach. It had seemed so trivial earlier...

... But now, she understood. She understood why, laughing, Gatou had willingly released the information of their littlest girl's living space, her room's location. Now she understood why, with that gleam in his eye, he'd grinned up at this demon, and bidding him adieu, had been sure to stress the idea of a hasty return.

If she'd held any less restraint, she'd liked to have vomited right then and there.

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If he had known Gatou was busy, and had left one of the women in charge of sign-in, he would have waited until later to come. Or so he would have thought, if he'd been more conscious. Everything felt hazy, not dreamlike, but phantasmagoric. When had he left the mansion? Furthermore, when had his feet started moving, and why did they bring him here of all places? There was no room for argument, even if he'd felt the desire to give it a try. The mist had settled over an already unsettled mind. For now, the best thing to do was simply rest.

And rest was something he could not do in that damnable home, which he so deeply loathed. Where -else- was he to go? No family, no friends. There was no retreat for a man whose only companion was the weapon in his hand. This was as close as he could ever come, this whorehouse.

Gatou's favorite held quite an interest in him, to be following him the way she was. A pretty thing, this woman, a woman he had seen countless many times--and had already been with, making her just another number on the list. Though, he did recall her as being one of the 'better' few. Good conversation, an understanding and comforting shoulder, a gentle hand to soothe the wrinkles of life over for the night. She had one bombshell of a body, to boot. But she was Gatou's, regardless whether or not it was in a sexual manner or not. Funny, thinking of a man like that picking favorites...

He was tired. Incredibly tired. And which room had Gatou told him it was, again...? Zabuza's thin brows arched upwards. She was in one of the last handfull of rooms, down the left corridor. Well, this was the left corridor. The doors were not numbered, but instead had little tags on them, he realized after stopping to stare at a particular one with a thin, flower-covered strip of paper titled 'Asuka'. 'Asuka' was certainly not who he was looking for, whoever the Hell she was. It must have been down further.

The second set of footsteps quickly fell back in line with his own, enabling him to almost completely forget about their presence. 'Tomoyo'. 'Ikari'. 'Matsuhara'. Each door held a different name, but none of them the name that he sought out.

Around the corner stretched another hallway, and with the new hallway came new doors. It was about halfway down this particular hall that he did in fact find the door-in-question. A purely white nametag, with, written in careful kanji, 'Haku'. He reached for the knob and, without a second thought on the matter, opened the door to move inside, leaving it ajar in case his follower felt the need to continue the pursuit inside here. Which, he noted almost instantly, she did not; instead choosing to lurk in the doorway.

That was the entirely last moment he paid attention to her existence for the night, as was the case with the rest of the world. Gatou, his father, the military... all of them faded away into the shadows of his mind. He was tired, too tired to dwell any longer in the world outside. For now, this room was his new world, to do with what he pleased.

Just as Haku was his to do with what he pleased. His sudden entry into her private quarters caused fear in the small girl, evident in the way her body recoiled on her bed. Beads of water dripped from her hair, to disappear in the blankets or slide smoothly down still-damp skin. Her hairbrush had dropped not far from her. The only thing covering her was a towel, which she clutched tightly to herself.

He held no words for her, no explanation. He had none for himself, either. All he knew, was that his body felt the need to give out, if not once and for all then for a night. One night. One night of absolute peace. She must have realized this at some point, because slowly she uncurled herself.

In mere moments he too was on the bed. Sprawled out comfortably on his back, head resting in the lap of the innocent flower, he was asleep, as though he had never been awake to begin with. Haku had settled into her intuitive role, a steadying hand gently stroking a few of the mussy strands of hair that had fallen over his free forehead.

----End Chapter 3----


	4. Man That You Fear

Okay! Chapter 4, up and ready to be posted! I like the beginning of this, but... the middle and end, not so much. This one'll probably one day be rewritten, or something. I don't know. ..; What do you guys say?

3! I want to give a special thanks, to The Obsidian Goddess. She's like, my number one fan, other than my boyfriend; who automatically doesn't count. Sorry, Brandon. I love you to death, since I know you're going to read this, too. Eheheh. But, yes. Thank you, so very much, for supporting me. And for being patient with me and my long-delayed updates. ; Don't worry, if I don't update for a while, I -will- do it, you have my word. I really do want to finish this thing. It'll take a long time, though, as you can already tell... There's a LOT more to come. This's the tip of the iceburg. ... Did I spell that right? Ice...burg...? Oh, who cares!? Thank you, both of you. The Obsidian Goddess, and Brandon. And thank you, everyone else who reads this fanfic, because every person who reads it, whether they review or not, is important to me. Love you guys!

Before I get started with the actual fanfic. There are a few things I want to clear up. It might seem, given this chapter and a few to come, that I'm actually doing a bit of hopping to cover my tracks with certain things. Or, maybe no one'll notice this... Either way, I'm going to say it now. About Zabuza's father. In the last chapter, Zabuza mentioned that he was not at all abused as a child; his father was just strict, and punishment was severe. You're undoubtedly going to see a few things(a -few-? Not sure if that's an understatement or not..) that might possibly make you think, 'WTF?' No, nothing like.. molestation or rape. Pssssh. But anywho. Zabuza does not consider any physical damage his father deals him as abuse; merely, punishment. Punishment for things he has no control over, but.. nonetheless. What else was I going to bring up, that I forgot about? Uh...

... This first flashback, Zabbykins is asleep. The second, he's not. He's just kind of... spaced out, staring at a whole lot of nothing across the room. Or maybe he did fall asleep? You'll never kno--ow! ... Eh. Or something. I'm trying -really- hard not to make this corny. xD The fanfic, I mean. Like, with his mother, and all the things that'll happen later. (Yes, you'll get to see into his past two more times like this. Bwahahahaha. .. Sorry?) If my ideas are really horrible, then, I apologize. But I really -am- putting a lot of thought into this stuff. So, nyah. I didn't want to just.. have Zabuza look the way he does just BECAUSE, you know? I actually wanted to give it some meaning. And no, he did not magically recover from his little ailment, as you'll see towards the middle of this.

Yes, everything I put into this fanfic, no matter how small and trivial it may seem, is in there for a reason, usually. USUALLY. Just don't pick it apart and think like, .. a blade of grass or something is symbolic. xD; Oi. Any symbols and/or important mentions, etc. will be revealed in due time, as will what they're there for. Don't worry.

And no, I haven't forgotten about Kubikiri Houchou, Kisame, Raiga, the Demon Brothers(whose names I'm too hyper to remember. Meizo and Gozu or something?), or Zabuza's desire to become Mizukage in the original Naruto. You won't see much of him planning a coup d'etat, but it -will- come into play at the very end when everything wraps up. Your duty, as readers, is to decide, however, what really happened on Zabuza's part, and what did not. Take that however you want it. 3 And no, that was not a spoiler. Just a heads-up.

**Chapter 4: Man That You Fear**

Every morning, whether the sun was shining warmly from above or tears poured down from the Heavens in the form of raindrops, she could be found amidst the flowers, singing to herself as nimble fingers plucked free unwanted weeds or sprinkled water down on the blossoming, color-filled plants so deeply cherished. And some mornings, when there was no extra work to be done, she would sit on the edge of the stone fountain's base with a book, exploring inside the pages to a world of fantasy and romances that always ended in happiness. No matter what day, no matter what time of morning, always she would be out there in her garden, among the flowers; her flowers. It was her escape, her sanctuary. Her paradise.

And in her paradise, he too found paradise. Because his paradise had always been with her. In her arms, at her side... hiding himself behind her to occasionally peek out and catch a glimpse of the unforgiving world. But he'd never once had a reason to fear that world beyound the hem of her dress, because she protected him. She hid his eyes from the things he needn't see. She covered his ears from the words that didn't need to be heard.

Every morning, when Zabuza woke up, the first place he would go--after pulling on his clothes, combing his hair, and brushing his teeth--was outside into the courtyard. There were three doors leading out into the courtyard: two directly across from each-other, the third located to the far south. The mansion was built with a large square to one side of it, further left than center, so going through any door would lead back inside. The first two led into hallways on the first floor, which if followed led to opposite ends of the room behind the third door; the parlor, where now and then the captivating music of the piano flitted out of.

Trees that extended almost above the roof of the house were scattered all throughout the courtyard, but the branches stretched out far enough to the sides to canopy the ground, so the sunlight that filtered through the trees seemed dyed a lighter green. There was no one patch that was not covered by the shadow of the leaves. Still, given these conditions, the flowers so far below managed to grow without problem. In a way, the trees seemed to be protecting their smaller plant friends, and the flowers responded gratefully by continually shining their vibrant array of colors.

In the very heart of the courtyard, a fountain had been built. Stone fairies danced on a smaller basin, what looked to be daffodil cups tipped to allow water to pour from them. The water flooded over the sides of the basin, into a larger basin, to be recycled back up to the top of the fountain in a neverending cycle. Around the lower, larger basin, on the edge of the base, was where she could be found, seated comfortably. There were also benches located around the fountain, three of them, made of the same stone. On any one of these benches was another possible spot for her, depending on her mood perhaps.

Every morning, when he hurried out into the garden, it was not quite with a smile; smiling was something he seldom did. But for her, he always offered the closest thing, face upturned to hers, as he climbed into her welcoming lap and gentle, loving embrace. And always, always... she would smile back, with a smile bright enough to light the world.

A smile bright enough to light -his- world.

The Lady Momochi, appropriately named Akiko, was a fairly young woman; the year of her son's birth, she had celebrated her twenty-eighth birthday, which fell on the fifteenth of May. In the eight years she and Kazuo had been married prior to Zabuza's arrival, the two lovers had chalked up their lack of a child to his frequent absences, being the military general that he was. There were times where he was forced away for entire months on end, leaving their only means of communication letters written with the utmost love.

As the years passed, and the civil wars raged on, Akiko's life became consumed with fear for not only her beloved husband, but for his bloodline as well. What if something were to happen, and he-- ... he found himself unable to return? Who would carry on the Momochi name, without a son? Night after night, she prayed. She prayed for a child.

And, as the years passed, her prayers remained unanswered, much to her dismay. Her body simply would not take her husband's seed to create the new life they both longed for. She was deemed infertile.

But that did not stop the two from loving each-other, the way that they always had. No; in a way, it had caused Kazuo's love for his young wife to burn stronger. It gave him more reason to return home every opportunity he recieved, to see that beautiful smile set on a chinadoll face. It gave him more reason to cherish her, to worship and adore her, to make her feel like the princess he truly viewed her as. For it seemed that they were all each-other would ever have.

Eight years of marriage, eight years of her unanswered prayers. Finally, with great difficulty, Akiko recieved her blessing. A son. To her, the most beautiful baby ever to be born. They had been warned that, due to his mother's family's history of health, there was a possibility that the child might come out deformed, or worse, stillborn. It broke Akiko's heart especially to hear this, but, not once did she lose faith. Every chance she recieved, she would speak with her unborn child, or hum a little tune for him. Sometimes, she would even sing. Sitting out in her garden, letting the days pass by without notice until her husband's return, she would tell their child stories about him, about the great, strong man that he would one day call 'father'. And sometimes, she would say nothing at all, but instead listen to the sound of the birds singing and chirping happily above her head; she hoped with all her heart that he too could hear them, that he felt the same joy she did from their tiny twittering voices. The same butterflies that fluttered by, she imaged fluttering around her child inside her body every time he moved, whether it be to shift or remind her of his presence with a little kick.She was happy.

August fifteenth came, and he was ready to enter the world at last--three weeks early, though not with any consequences.

He was a healthy, beautiful baby boy. Originally, she had wanted to name him 'Makoto', finding it to be a very dear name for a little boy, one that would hopefully influence his later characteristics into sincerity and loyalty. However, Kazuo and she had eventually settled for 'Zabuza', after much persuasion from the elder of the relationship. To her, it sounded violent, a soldier's name. But if it truly pleased her husband. And so Zabuza came to be.

He did not cry, despite how the doctors attempted to force him to. He made little sound at all. If not for his steady breathing and squirming, they might have mistaken him for dead. It was not natural for a newborn to remain so silent. Another problem they quickly caught onto, was the strange pigment of his blood-soaked skin. When cleaned up, yes, he held only a slightly pink coloring, but why so pale, dark--ashen? And it did not change, as the days passed. As the weeks passed. It did not change, despite the passing years, whereas facial features would sharpen and dark, cold eyes would maintain a deathly sunken impression--only slightly correcting over time.

This child's problem, doctors searched and searched until concluding, was a blood deficiency. To his mother, this meant little, except that he required extra care. To the rest of the country, and even his own father, however, it meant that he was not normal. A monster, he would come to be called early on, until the title's sudden ascention into that of a 'demon' instead.

This estranged child, even if he had desired to could not play games with the other children, frail as his body were. Stepping foot outside in the bright hours of day proved to be painful. He held little energy, barely enough to sustain moving through the world like a zombie, a walking corpse, as his color and size both cast the appearance of. It was only in the comfort of night that he was able to truly explore the world outside in the earlier years of his life, which he was not expected to live beyound. Only the pale glow of the moon and stars refrained from burning at his sensitive flesh. And then the blood transfusions began. What his veins lacked, was exactly what he required to live, and so, starting with once a week, trips to the hopsital were made to give the starving body its dose of thick red liquid. It was in these procedures that the Momochi heir first discovered his lust for bloodshed.

In a sense, this child was a vampire to the eyes of society. They grew to fear him, and in turn, to hate him; even his father, who had once been so prideful of the son he and his lovely wife had been blessed with. Now, there was no pride; but the bitter shame that he indeed had brought such a monstrosity into the world. It was his seed that had created the cruel-eyed little boy so fond of sitting in the window of his bedroom, staring passively, but still disdainfully, at his peers below and their endless games. Sometimes there would be hiding, sometimes chasing. Sometimes they would form teams. Sometimes, they would bicker, but most of the time they laughed, a sound that seemed to echo and hang in the dead silence.

The solitude never bothered Zabuza himself. He was content spending his life with his mother, his beloved mother...

Despite having a strong voice, at first he preferred silence as his means of communication, the prologue to the man he would later become: the master of silent killing, Kirigakure no Kijin. First, however... he was a child, regardless of behaviour or mentality.

And it was this child that constantly clung to the arm or skirt of his mother. Was it for dear life, for his own survival, or was it out of the purest gift a child can offer; undying love and admiration? Perhaps, it was both. He did not realize it then, in his innocent years--would not realize it for some time. But she was, had been, the only one whose honeydew optics perceived him as a human being, with the right to exist, the right to be loved. She was the only one who had loved him.

That was why he would wake up early in the mornings, hurry to wash and dress, and run as fast as his legs would carry him out into the garden, where the trees sheltered this fragile flower from the harm of the sun, and, with the closest smile thin, colorless lips could muster, he would climb into his seated mother's lap to feel her warming embrace. And her smile would shine brighter than the sun itself in his eyes, because to him it -was- the sun.

Neither mother nor child were aware of the eyes constantly watching them, the disgusted, if not envious, glint sparked in a set that mirrored Zabuza's.

On one particular blissful morning, surrounded by the gentle humming of nature, Akiko lowered her head to smile at her son, curls of darker brown spilling over only her right shoulder with the subtle movement, and she said something peculiar: "As I sat out here, in the past... I always tried to imagine what you would look like, little one..."

To this, Zabuza's head edged over to one side, barely-existent brows raising in a gesture of curiousity.

Laughing softly, she lifted a hand, allowing it to graze over his forehead; sweeping away messy bangs in the process. "You are your father's son. When you are older, maybe you too will see the resemblance? My beautiful little boy..."

He'd not quite understood where his mother's comments had come from. And how could he, when she protected him so fiercely? ... The world outside would only sling painful insults towards him, if given the chance. It was her way of preparing him; of telling him, that no matter what others said, she would always cherish her first and only baby...

...Eyelids flickered. Briefly, his nose scrunched up, as a low, uneasy groan of sorts rose and died in his throat. It was with great hesitation that Zabuza's eyes forced themselves open again, halfway to begin with. In his mind's eye it had been his mother's face smiling down at him, a scene straight from his memories, her soft humming spreading peace all throughout his heavy body.

But when finally his sight adjusted to the dimly lit room, there were two crucial facts he came to realize:

One, the reason for his sudden sluggishness was not simple fatigue, but something far more severe; for too long he had been neglecting his inescapable health problem, and this was his body's way of warning him that it did require blood to avoid something if continued to be overlooked would prove both catastrophic and fatal.

Two, there was in fact a set of eyes peering down at him; larger, more innocent than his mother's, they were the eyes of the little white flower.

Haku.

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Haku had been sitting in the same position for hours now. How she had managed, was completely beyound her comprehension. Back propped against the headboard of the bed, the man from the night before--Zabuza-- occupying her lap with his head, the position was not very comfortable at all, not to mention she could not slip on her clothes or finish drying off, leaving her with goosebumps along her arms and chest.

Somehow, she didn't seem to notice her personal woes. Not only from the shock that he had barged right into her room, but also, the shock that he gentle about it. Then there was the shock of actually seeing his face--every detail of it.

He was not a bad-looking man, by any means! Why did he wear the bandages as she had seen him the first time? Or was it not an issue of hiding something? While to her, his appearance came across as very unusual--she'd not seen a man like him, but, then again, she was not very worldly to begin with-- the only real explanation the young girl could stab at for the makeshift mask were the two rows of sharp teeth lining the inside of his mouth, which... didn't come across as a big deal, anyway. They added a nice touch to his already unnerving face.

This was, truly, the first time she was able to see him. Why he had chosen her, instead of any of the other women--especially the more matured ones--no longer mattered. He had, and so he was here, sleeping not-so-peacefully on her bed despite Gatou's stressing that no man, under any circumstances, was to be permitted into the bedrooms. She...was honoured. Not just honoured, no; excited, almost unbearably so, making it painfully difficult not to fidget. For his sake, she refrained. During their last encounter, it was she who slept. This time around, maybe, just maybe.. he would stay longer. He would talk to her more. The thought of that deep, somewhat surly voice devoting its time and attention to her like last time flared a blush in her cheeks.

Occasionally in his sleep, her guest's face would contort; his lips would pull back in a twitch--how she had come to discover those deadly canines, or eyelids seemed to quiver uneasily. However, the rest of his body, save the steady rise and fall of that broad chest, lingered in dormancy. She found herself torn between concern and curiousity. Her hand crept back to his forehead, first fingertips resting barely against it, then, when all seemed well with the simple contact, the rest of her fingers followed.

As she peered over into his sleeping face, a surprise greeted her; the fluttering of the eyelids this time was followed by his eyes opening, and clouded irises shifted and fixated on hers. Just like their first encounter, there was the familiar sensation that he were not just looking into her own lighter-brown pools, but the soul tucked safely inside the confines of her being. However, there didn't appear to be any sort of confusion on his part. Did he know where he was, then? Did he remember? --Her hand retracted, to rest at her side again."Nn, Za..Zabuza-san...?"

Slowly, Zabuza moved into a sitting position, one calloused hand lifting to press firmly against his forehead in the very spot her far smaller one had abandoned, face contorting again into an anguished frown. Still, his eyes fixed themselves on her. Expectant?

The cold chill she'd forgotten earlier returned, producing a shiver as both arms moved to grasp firmly the opposite arm. What was he waiting for? What did he want her to say...? Little by little the excitement was dwindling down to a tiny, insignificant spark. Across the room burnt a single lamp, its light dim as a fire, yet still the cheery orange glow filled the room top to bottom; including the darker-toned form's stoic face. Around each thin eye lurked heavy shadow, pitch black. His mouth remained slightly ajar, making her wonder if perhaps there was something on his mind, something that he intended on saying, until the continued silence turned away the notion. The best she recieved was what sounded like a sigh. Temptation begged to move closer to him, to inquire as to whether or not everything was indeed all right, but... Zabuza by no means appeared to want the company. Strange, should that have been the case, considering it was he who had engaged in this awkward reunion to begin with...

.. He shattered the silence. "Get dressed, Haku." Nothing more, aside from rising to his feet for relocation into a nearby chair which, as he had done the night before, was pulled to the bedside before his final shifts to gain complete comfort. She watched him, fishing for something--anything--to say, but all that could be mustered was a robotic nod, to show that she had heard, and would obey--the latter being pathetically easy since it had been what she was fixing to do before his arrival, anyway. Her nightgown was still folded in a small square on the dresser across the room, waiting its time patiently to be draped down over its owner's dainty figure. Thoughtlessly she scooted her way over the side of the bed. Deep midnight blue was the color of her carpet, soft to the touch, which caressed her feet each step she took. And when the dresser was in arm's length, she snatched the nightgown up, allowing it to unfold freely.

He was watching her; she could feel those eyes on her as she lowered the towel. She could feel them burning into her bare back, until the white gown was slipped over her head. She could feel them as a fresh pair of ungergarments were slipped up her legs, to their appropriate home at the very base of her form. Yet, she didn't mind. Perhaps she was beginning to get used to this strange man, this enigma of flesh and bone, or perhaps it was because he made no move whatsoever to touch her or frighten her with lewd comments as she'd witnessed men do with other women here.

Spots of her hair still held its dampness, though not enough to fling droplets of water about the room, Haku mused as digits raked through it in hopes of smoothing it out, probably because it had not been properly brushed and dried due to the surprise sprung upon her. Not that it was important. Later on--in the morning, if it came to be that long, it would be taken care of, preferably after his departure rolled around, whenever that happened to be. Meanwhile, the nightgown had done its duty; long sleeves, cuffed at the ends, helped to provide her with the utmost of warmth, so the temperature drop in the room regardless of source no longer bothered her.

It was something new that captured her attention, her worry: had he come back to her because she was a 'good girl'? While part of her insisted it wouldn't hurt to ask, the other part demanded that it wasn't worth it, to forget about the 'why' as she had been doing earlier. It did not matter 'why'. He was there of his own free will, wasn't he?

Umeko had long-since disappeared from the doorway. She'd been upset, Haku could tell, though not quite to the point of tears... But she found that the more she dwelled on it, the worse her curiousity and confusion grew as to what exactly was, or had been, going on. Asking Zabuza seemed a bad idea. Her hands clasped in front of her, at her stomach; but instead of turning her full body, it was only her head that glanced backwards, hoping for some sign of friendliness in the assumed soldier. Alas, it was too dark. The only thing she could make out were his eyes. The eyes themselves were preoccupied with something else, something across the room; away from her. An invisible something, a something that likely didn't truly exist except to the one who so intently stared at it. Still, she wished she could know what that complex mind was seeing...

Maybe that was the reason she dared to draw closer to the Momochi. Reaching out, with the hope of touching his arm, only to pull back at the last second. However, in the dark, it was she who was touched; a hand, familiar, closed around her lower forearm instead. And that was all. Not a tug, not a squeeze. She was left to stare at not the contact between limbs, but his face--hidden, except for those eyes. -That- was when they returned their gaze to hers. Full of passivity yet curiousity, too. "Rest."

Again, he was sentencing her to sleep the rest of the night away. As much as she would have adored to once again obey his command, the shadow loomed overhead that he might be gone come morning. Would he come back again? But the thought of sleep tempted her something awful. That warm, cozy bed, curled up beneath the thick blanket... head resting on a pillow soft enough to pass as a real cloud. Without realizing it, Haku swayed in place, only to be steadied by the same hand that held her arm. Oh, how she wanted to speak with him again...to hear that voice. She longed to learn more about the powerful soldier mere inches in front of her. And why shouldn't she? He was... a stranger.

Yes, a stranger. He was a stranger, in all ways of the word.

Zabuza must have sensed her difficulty, because his laughter filled the seemingly ever-darkening room: "We will talk another time. Rest."

He could easily have been lying. Logically speaking, if he had no intention of coming back, saying such a thing was probably the easiest way out of the situation of staying any longer. And yet... Haku believed him. Something about the way he spoke, for as apathetic as it were, reassured her that his word was sincere, regardless of how opposite the man himself seemed. For him, she would obey. She would rest, until the morning, when she could hopefully see his face again.

Perhaps... when she awoke next, things would make even a little more sense.

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..Back into the confines of memories... Back into the Hell of the mind.

And in the darkness, he heard her voice, loud and clear: singing.

All around, springing to life from the nothingness, the same scene; the garden, in all its thriving glory. But this time, he was there, watching as a bystander this painful event he longed so dearly to lose hold of completely. The grass, the trees, the flowers... The sound of running water from the fountain, they all seemed so real, real enough to trick him into believing that it -were- real.

No, something remained missing in this scene. Her voice. It had faded along with the darkness. Stepping from the darkened doorway into the realm of shades of green and eternal sunshine, a hand was instantly brought up to shield his eyes from the unforgiving light. Despite the trees blocking the rays, somehow it was still painful, the sudden transition into a world long-since lost, especially to his eyes, which had become used to the grey skies consuming his life.

Beside him, a familiar little boy moved; conjured up to play the part of his older self in the drama slowly unfolding. No more than eight years old, however tiny he were for his age. Only briefly did he look up to Zabuza. An identical set of eyes caught, then they were gone, the boy's soundless footsteps drawing him further and further into what was supposed to be paradise--what had once -been- paradise. He didn't want to; but when he turned back to the doorway that had led him to this place, it was to find nothing; not a hole, not a door, but a black wall, empty as the shadows casted over his residing area. There was no choice now but to move forward, to bear witness to what he already knew was fixing to take place.

He hurried to catch up to the child of memory, and in five or six short strides they were once more side-by-side, weaving expertly around the bases of trees, until the sound of rushing water became nearly deafening in the silence to Zabuza's ears. It was time to fall behind a step.

In the back of his mind, he yearned for a cigarette. Just one, to distract his senses... Unfortunately, the kid wouldn't pick up the habit for another ..nine or so years. Thin brows furrowed, and his lips twisted into a tight frown.

Like a sheep he continued to follow. The closer he grew, the more sluggish he felt; by the time the fountain came into view, his body was ready to give out. This.. was not his time, nor his place. It was up to the young boy to run his fated course. And so, he allowed himself to slump into the lush grass, back pressed firmly against the base of a particular oak facing the unfolding act. There she was, just as he recalled; seated on the lone bench with her hands in her lap, staring without reason off into the distance. His mother.

Her mind had left her little at a time, raping her of memories, of logical thought, until all she did day in and day out was sit motionlessly in her garden. It had even stolen from her that smile he'd always adored, replacing it with a look of unmeasureable distance. Distance that, when he was this young boy's age, he'd longed to span, to be with her; no matter where her absent mind had deposited her at. The only person he'd ever loved, and she was taken from him, without warning, without explanation.

Oh, how he wanted to speak to her, to return the embraces that she had always given him with one of his own, now that he was able to. But alas, it could never be; she did not see him, and certainly could not feel him, for this was not his world to move freely throughout.

Everything that would happen, had already been slated in stone by his own past. Because this -was- his past.

He watched as the young boy approached his mother--their mother. He listened, painfully, to the quiet pleas he'd shamefully uttered himself so long ago, and during the second attempt mouthed the words along with the desperate child whom gained his pity. And when Akiko did not respond, and the boy reached out to her, to climb into her lap...

...Zabuza felt sick, as the insane woman's shrieks pierced straight through his heart. She had shoved her only son violently away. Screaming, thrashing, now and then pointing a finger towards the grounded youth with cries of 'monster' and 'freak' pouring from a once kind tongue, now turned venomous with the decay of her mind. He could only stare, doubled over with pain, the exact copy of the child whose eyes could not find the tears they surely felt to shed.

Then, suddenly, she was calm again. Inquiring quite frantically for her baby, her beloved baby. For she did not recognize her baby, the precious child she'd prayed so long for, directly in front of her...

He could take no more. Ignoring the growing sickness, ignoring the burning in his legs, ignoring the strange sensation intensifying behind both eyes--Zabuza ran. He scrambled to his feet and ran, away from the fountain, through the trees, to the spot that had brought him to this paradise-turned-Hell, and without a moment's hesitation he thrust himself through the darkness, back to the real world.

Back to the real world, the world that had become his sanctuary from the world he had once loved and cherished. At least there, in the real world... he was impassive without fail. In the real world, he was a demon, after all.

----End Chapter 4----


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